The Ride — Death, RH Problems & Luxury Hotels
The soft purr of the Bugatti La Voiture Noire filled the Malibu night as I cruised down the Pacific Coast Highway, city lights reflecting off the polished black curves of the car. The dashboard gleamed with cosmic tech, displays only I could read — timelines, soul counts, divine memos popping like emails.
I pressed the earpiece. "Gabriel, you there?"
A moment of static, then the voice of the most annoyingly punctual celestial being cut through.
"Loud and clear, Daniel. Status update?"
I chuckled, shifting gears, the car responding like silk. "Status? Chaos partially averted. Stark's still breathing. But we got a problem."
"Define 'problem,' Death 2.0." Gabriel's tone was pure military — probably polishing his wings as we spoke.
I adjusted my sunglasses — even at night, gotta keep the style. "Manual says Tony Stark dies soon. But last I checked, his official death's after he pulls the Thanos snap. You know, Avengers, Infinity Stones, all that jazz."
"Cross-referencing…" I could practically hear Gabriel typing on some divine tablet. "Confirmed. Anthony Stark's death is scheduled post-Infinity War Events, Earth-199999 timeline. You intercepted early protocol?"
I laughed. "It popped up while I was sipping cosmic espresso, Gabriel. Your department's slipping."
"Impossible," he shot back, but his voice wavered. "Wait… cross-dimensional HR flagged a clerical override. Timeline corruption suspected. Possible multiversal bleed."
I groaned, taking the highway exit into the heart of the city. "Bleed? Gabriel, you letting interns mess with sacred files again?"
"We've been… short-staffed," he admitted, sheepish.
I shook my head, accelerating. Skyscrapers loomed ahead, neon signs promising luxury, sin, and overpriced cocktails. The city pulsed with life — perfect for laying low… or living high.
"You know what?" I smirked. "Forget stressing tonight. Let's enjoy this world before the next cosmic screw-up."
"You proposing downtime?"
"Damn right I am." I tapped the console — the Bugatti's AI pulled hotel listings. "Five-star suite. Rooftop bar. Maybe a few mortal distractions. You and me, partner."
Gabriel hesitated. "Angels don't—"
"Gabriel, I'm Death 2.0 driving a 20-million-dollar car with infinite cosmic authority. You're my RH handler stuck cleaning Heaven's paperwork while I make executive decisions. Tonight? You're clocking out."
Silence… then a reluctant sigh. "One night. No unauthorized soul collection. And I'm still reporting this conversation."
"Of course you are," I grinned, pulling up to the Eclipse Hotel — the tallest, shiniest, most absurdly opulent building in the city.
Valets scrambled as I parked the Bugatti at the entrance. My door lifted like the gates of destiny. I stepped out, tailored black suit fitting like it was woven from shadows, eyes glowing faint cosmic blue.
Gabriel materialized beside me — trench coat, suit, wing tips polished like mirrors. He looked half-exasperated, half-curious.
"Let's party," I declared.
As we entered, the lobby shimmered with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, fountains pouring champagne. Guests whispered, eyes drawn to us — death incarnate and HR's poster boy strolling in like gods slumming it.
Reception barely blinked when I flashed an American Express Black Card, the name: D. Mortis 2.0.
"Presidential suite," I ordered. "Rooftop view. Private bar."
Keys handed over in seconds — perks of omnipotent charisma.
In the elevator, Gabriel adjusted his tie, side-eyeing me. "Enjoy it while you can. You've got thirty days before the next mandatory target."
I leaned back, watching the floors tick by. "Let's hope the next 'clerical error' doesn't have me reaping Spider-Man early."
Gabriel paled. "Don't joke. That triggered four multiversal wars last time."
I snorted. "Relax. Tonight's for whiskey, skyline views, and pretending we're not babysitting a fragile reality."
The elevator dinged — penthouse level. We stepped into opulence: floor-to-ceiling windows, velvet furniture, stars reflecting off glass walls, the city sprawling below like a map of mortal playgrounds.
I poured two drinks, tossing one to Gabriel.
"To Death 2.0," I toasted. "And to fixing your HR messes."
Gabriel clinked glasses, resigned but smirking. "And to you not vaporizing the timeline by accident."
I laughed, cosmic energy crackling under my skin, eyes glinting with power barely contained.
"The night's young," I said. "And the universe? Ours to mess with."
We drank, the stars watching — destiny delayed, chaos brewing, but for now?
We lived.